“I need money,” he said.
“You what?”
“Money. I need a car.”
“Why do you need a car? You aren’t supposed to be driving.”
“I need more money then,” he said.
“Why more?”
“I'll need a chauffeur, too.”
“And you need a car and chauffeur for what reason?”
“So I can travel around teaching folks how to get rich with
my prosperity gospel.”
“Your prosperity gospel?”
“Yeah, I’ll even preach a sermon for you.”
“I have a better idea,” I said. “Why don’t you preach one to
yourself? Then you could buy a car yourself.”
“I did,” he said. “But I spent it on a new airplane. Your friends,
by the way, are very generous.”
“What?”
“Yeah. All I had to do was tell them that you needed an operation
to save your life and didn’t have the money for it.”
“And you used the money to buy an airplane?”
“Now I need something to get me to the airport.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Certainly not. Everyone loves me. But the rising costs of
salvation never cease,” he said. “Every time you fill one need, you need
another.”
“Have you talked to the Galilean about this?”
“Nah, he’s stuck in the First Century, still thinks about
all that goodness, mercy, and grace junk. Besides, he thinks airplanes are
getting a little too close to home, if you know what I mean.”
“Have you thought about earning your own money?”
“When there are so many people around already earning money
than they spend, or sitting on savings they may never need?”
What about a job?”
 |
| "What kind of shoes do the angels wear, Slipping and sliding on the golden stairs? Over-sized kickers and happy socks. Drop your money in the Missionary Box." Works every time. - C.W. |
“A what?”
“What happened to your job helping the police?”
“What job helping the police?”
“You were going to use your psychic powers to help them
solve crimes.”
“I was not. That’s something you just made up. I never was
going to do such a thing.”
“Oh yes you were. I have a stack of letters terminating you
for not producing results.”
“Did you know I’m going to sell your Gibson ES-335 S to help
pay for my car?”
“You what?”
“And I have two of Mrs. Big Dope’s antique Singer sewing machines
on the market.”
I ran from the room to check. He hadn’t of course. But by
the time I returned, he had stolen my wallet and my cell phone, including the
telephone numbers of all my friends. I couldn’t find him anywhere.
For the life of me, I can’t imagine where he learned such
tricks. He must have brought them with him from Falloonia.
See also:
Enjoy these at all? If so, order Big Dope's Book at Wattensaw Press, Amazon, or other book sellers. It will make him so happy. Also, click on an ad. It earns him a little and costs the advertiser, sort of a win-win.
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